Énigmes: Nox
by PhinnieLin
Summary: 1998. Tom Riddle muses over minions, false pretenses, and that Malfoy boy. TD


Énigmes: Nox

Tom Riddle had never thought of himself as "Voldemort."  It had always been intended as a sort of title, more than anything else, a way to differentiate himself from his detested Muggle father, and later, when the Death Eaters had begun to address him as 'master,' it was a way to differentiate himself from them.   
  
Mages the lot of them, with purebred pedigrees longer than their egos were large, the sons and younger cousins of the boys Tom Riddle had attended Hogwarts with, years before the fall of Grindelwald and of himself. He hated them, hated their sniveling, their whines and protests, and how they prostrated themselves before him, bending knee to their lord and ruler, whilst continually plotting behind their masks about how to best rid themselves of him.   
  
They'd never intended for him to return. Even Lucius, who above all the others, he'd held close and informed of his secrets, Lucius to whom he'd entrusted the diary that held his younger soul, even he had betrayed and abandoned his lord at the first sign of peril.   
  
Perhaps this was why he was so free with Cruciatus his first night back, and in the weeks that followed. It might even have been the reason that he, half desperate with hedonistic need, had selected of their sons and daughters those to take and keep and form into an inner sanctum. Tom had thought the younger set might have more strength than their parents, but this was not the case. If anything, they were more cowed than their parents were, and they averted their eyes when Tom entered the room, refused to meet his gaze when he spoke to them.   
  
He hated them even more than he did their parents, and so, when he took them he cared not for their cries of pain or pleasure, and sought only his own.   
  
His latest was a pretty thing, the eldest Parkinson girl, Marie. She had a younger sister; he'd vaguely remembered a mop of dark curls and screaming yelps when the child had been presented to him back before his fall. Marie was slight, and had her sister's dark hair and eyes, but she was cold and nervous in bed. Maybe the sister would be warmer.   
  
As if she could sense his thoughts, Marie shivered by his side. Tom ignored her. She'd brought his attention back from his ruminations, and he cast his eyes about the room, lazily taking in the twenty of so hooded figures that lined the walls.   
  
One of them stood slightly apart from the rest, the slow languid tones he employed identifying him even more than the slight curls of silver hair that had escaped cloak and mask. Lucius always was a bore. Tom sneered at him, and Lucius quelled, falling silent in his report on the activities of the Mugglelover that they called a headmaster at their old alma mater.   
  
Tom glanced about, the room completely silent now save for the shifting of feet and rustle of fabric over nervous frames. Everywhere he looked, faces turned just slightly down or away, looking over his shoulder instead of his face, refusing to meet him stare for stare as he desired. Not for the first time, he regretted the decision to employ masks as a standard part of the uniform.   
  
The new recruits stood behind their parents, and it was there that his gaze fell next. Their faces were visible, having not earned the right to wear the full mask or mark of the true devotee as of yet. Marie's sister was there, somewhere, and he peered about for her. It didn't take long to find the girl; the Parkinsons all shared the same unfortunate pug nose. Her hair was short, but she was pretty enough as well.   
  
He raised an eyebrow; the girl, Gloria or Petunia or some other ridiculous flowery Victorian name, was clutching one hand on the robe of a boy. He didn't seem in the least concerned that he'd just attracted the attention of his dread lord and master. Instead he seemed to have fixed his entire concentration on attempting to remove Petty's –_Pansy's_, that wasit- hand. He was failing miserably, and the look of sheer vexation on the boy's face was a delight to behold.   
  
It had been ages since he'd seen any emotion on a follower save for fear or pain, and Tom found himself...interested...for lack of a better term.   
  
Pansy had noticed the attention on them, and paled. Everyone seemed to have noticed where Tom was staring, save for the boy himself, and it wasn't until the girl, panic stricken, whispered fiercely "He's staring at you!" that he deemed to look up.   
  
The boy met Tom's eyes without hesitation. If anything, he seemed irritated that he was being pulled from his activities. They were grey, and now that he was facing towards the front of the room, Tom could see silvery hair floating to the nape of his neck.   
  
This was Lucius' boy, he realized, and found himself intrigued. He'd barely been a year old the last time Tom had seen him, but he had to be seventeen at least now. He remembered the boy being presented, a pale scrawny thing that no one had expected to live past his first year, and he remained in many ways the same. That same pale skin, that same small frame and pointed, Elvin chin, the same cloud of moonlight hair. The only thing that seemed to have actually changed were the eyes; the baby Tom remembered had the blue eyes of his mother, not a set identical to his father's.   
  
Those eyes were still watching him, that pointed face turned to one side, one hand still idly trying to remove that of the Pansy girl. A smooth eyebrow rose, a silent query regarding the nature of Tom's stare, then just as suddenly, he dismissed Tom and returned to the task of getting rid of Parkinson.   
  
Tom heard the shocked gasps of the Death Eaters surrounding them, astounded by this lack of respect, but for the time being, ignored them.   
  
_That arrogant little bastard._   
  
Tom felt himself laughing at this, thrilled at this smarmy brat who dared to look him in the face. The boy didn't look up at this, but out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see Lucius stirring uneasily. _Afraid of what might befell his spoiled son, is he?_ Tom thought, still rather amused. _He should be._   
  
Marie tensed under his hand when he stretched it forth to stroke at her curls. Under his fingers, they felt rough and coarse, and he found himself wondering what silken straight strands would feel like, and whether smooth, pale skin would flinch away from his touch, as all the others did, and just what it would take to cause those grey eyes to avert themselves out of fear and not dismissal.  He wasn't entirely certain. 

He intended to find out.

***

Maybe to be continued. Currently a oneshot deal.  Hopefully enjoyable, regardless.

October 5, 2002


End file.
